


The Loose Ends of Time

by Live_At_The_Auction



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blood and Gore, Kill your double, M/M, Multi, Spoilers for Episode 19 A/B, Time in Night Vale, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:50:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Live_At_The_Auction/pseuds/Live_At_The_Auction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Earthquakes are hitting the desert and two radio hosts are getting parallel visions of strange beasts, unnatural experiments, and the end of time. Carlos thinks that Cecil may be causing time to slow down in Night Vale, and that similar time aberrations are occurring in Desert Bluffs. Old prophecies are coming to fruition (or so Erika says, according to Old Woman Josie) and the forces of nature are very, very upset at StrexCorp. Transformations, moving tattoos, car wrecks, sandstorms, some romancing, Ragnarok, angels that definitely do not exist, and all that good stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A/B: Earthquakes

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction, so please bear with me. I'm a huge Night Vale fan but not the best writer, and I can't for my life understand HTML. Please let me know if there are grammar/spelling errors and I'll try to fix them. Thank you, and please enjoy!
> 
> Edit: I am a chronic editor. Some words and little things might shift around in older chapters as I go through. Sorry for any confusion.

A: An Earthquake in Night Vale

Carlos smiled down at Cecil, slightly annoyed that he could fall asleep during a James Bond flick but also happy almost to the point of giddiness that he'd fallen asleep while cuddling. His dark hair was tickling Carlos's thin beard and his head was cocked at a funny angle to his torso, one arm stretched across Carlos's lap. His long legs were tangled and one was hanging down to the floor. Carlos had grown used to his boyfriend's eccentricities over the past year--his fashion sense, for example; Cecil's pink-and-yellow tank top was bunched up on the side, exposing a little skin between the hem and his dress slacks--but sometimes, in the quieter moments, it would strike him how _odd_ Cecil really was.

His tattoos were actively swimming across his arms. They were _usually_ geometric patterns of purple, blue, and black, but sometimes Carlos swore they were greenish tentacles or red eldritch writing or eyes that blinked at him. Now and then they up and vanished, always without their owner's notice, and would return with a subtly different design. Right now, they were rippling slowly under the hair on Cecil's arms like an image reflected on water. Carlos wondered now and then if they were sentient--he wouldn't be surprised at this point--but he couldn't think of a way to test that, and all previous attempts to study Cecil's tattoos had resulted in absolutely nothing of interest. "They're just tattoos," Cecil had said, frowning slightly. "Why the sudden interest?"

"Because!" Carlos had burst. "I saw them moving!"

Cecil had laughed and kissed him. "Carlos, I promise you that they don't move. I don't know what the law says where you're from, but in Night Vale it's a felony to be host to sentient beings without visas." As he'd said it, a tendril of ink had crept up onto his neck and _waved_ like a sarcastic little hand.

Tattoos that moved and danced; freckles that appeared on June first, every year, in a puff of light and smoke; occasional glimpses of extra limbs that Cecil _swore_ weren't his. His boyfriend was a scientific marvel. Fondly, Carlos reached down and brushed the skin of Cecil's forearm with his fingertips. The tattoos froze as if they knew they were being watched. Despite himself, Carlos chuckled.

Cecil lifted his head from Carlos's side. "Hmrzf?" he burbled, rubbing a lightly freckled cheek. "What? Was I sleeping?"

"Yeah, you fell asleep"--he glanced at the clock out of habit and gave up--"right after they introduced the bad guy."

"Oh." Cecil yawned hugely and settled himself in Carlos's lap, nuzzling into his neck. Carlos wrapped his arms around his torso. "It's a silly movie anyway."

"James Bond is _not_ silly."

"Sure it is. No-one in this movie understands how guns work."

Carlos snorted with laughter and kissed Cecil's forehead. Cecil grinned sleepily, eyes half-lidded, those pure white and featureless eyes that had dazzled Carlos from the start. He'd been frightened at first, but then that fear gave way to scientific curiosity and attraction. So far, despite exhaustive tests, he hadn't found pupils, nor irises, nor corneas, nor proper sclera in those eyes, but Cecil could obviously still see as at that moment he pointed to the TV. "Okay, which one is he, with the hair?"

"That's Bond, Cecil."

"Is he the bad guy?"

"No, he's the hero."

"Then why does he dress like that?"

"Because he's a spy."

Cecil snorted. "Spies don't wear formal suits."

Carlos leaned over him. "Oh? And what do they wear, then?"

"Everyone knows that spies wear _track_ suits." He looked up at Carlos with an obvious expression, explaining slowly, "That's common knowledge. Track suits and occasionally gold tiaras."

Carlos laughed at the image of Sean Connery fighting villains in a track suit and golden tiara. Cecil frowned until Carlos kissed him. "You're cute, Cec."

"I don't see what's so cute about a track suit," Cecil muttered through a grin. "Your movies are weird."

Suddenly, a spasm of alarm crossed his face and he launched upright. Carlos sat up. "What is it?"

Something rumbled outside and the electricity blew, plunging Cecil's living room into darkness. Cecil stood and stumbled as the entire apartment building started shaking. Books were rattling on their shelves, the windows clattered in their frames; Carlos stood, grabbing onto Cecil's shoulder for support. "Earthquake!" he shouted over the growing noise. "Cecil, under the table!"

Cecil had gone pale and stiff. His eyes focused on something in the ceiling and his head was farther back on his neck than it probably should be. Carlos dragged him under the coffee table, banging his own head as he did so, and with increasing alarm had to pull Cecil's legs in after him. Cecil's eyes were practically glowing in the dim light, wide with alarm. "Cecil!" Carlos shouted, shaking his boyfriend's shoulders. "Cecil, can you hear me?"

Cecil's response was to let out a low, rumbling moan that was nearly lost beneath the sound of dishes falling out of cupboards in the kitchen. He was frozen stiff, staring into space. Carlos latched onto him as the building lurched. "Hang on, Cec. Just hang on. What's wrong? Is it the earthquake? Cecil, answer me!"

Something crashed in the other room; upstairs, people were shouting and shrieking--Carlos buried his head in Cecil's tensed shoulder as the world gave one last vicious buck and then stopped very suddenly. He lifted his head, pushing the coffee table away by the legs. "Cec?" he asked warily.

Cecil rolled onto his knees, clutching his stomach, and vomited onto the floor.

Carlos jumped up and walked around it to reach Cecil. "You're gonna be all right, don't worry," he crooned, pulling Cecil to his feet. Cecil tore away and found the trashcan, overturned with its contents strown around it, heaving into it. "Cecil! What's wrong? What happened?"

Finally, Cecil spoke. "I don't know," he moaned hoarsely. "Motion sickness?"

"Maybe. Yeah. That was a pretty rough... thing. I'll go to the lab and see what's up. Let me get you some water." He stood and crossed into the kitchen. "Oh, man--Cecil, be careful in here; there's broken glass everywhere."

He found a plastic cup that had landed away from the worst of the shards and tip-toed to the mess to the sink. The water was off when he tried the faucet. The quake must've taken it out. Growing frantic, he reached the open fridge and grabbed the nearest liquid. "Cecil, the water's out, so you get milk instead. Is that okay?"

Cecil grunted from the other room.

Carlos deer-stepped through the glass to hand the cup to him. "Here. Drink this." Cecil took the cup and chugged it down, still looking green. His tattoos were scrambling across his arms, vibrating and flickering, now and then shooting off a little wad of ink that disappeared under his shirt and reappeared seconds later. How did he not notice them? "Cecil, your tattoos--"

"Thanks." He handed back the cup, looking tiredly at his arms. That tattoos froze in their regular pattern the moment he focused on them. "What about them?"

Carlos shook his head. "Never mind." He reached out and helped Cecil to his feet. "Do you want some help cleaning up?"

"No, I'll be fine. You go to the lab and sort this out." he bobbed his head as if about to kiss Carlos's forehead, but apparently thought better of it and just hugged him.

"Okay. I'll call you as soon as I know what happened. " He craned up on his toes to kiss Cecil's cheek. "Love you. Take care. Call me if you feel sick, okay?"

"I will. Love you."

Cecil watched him go with those perfect white eyes, eyes like moonstones, like paper, like winter days.

\-------------------------------

B: An Earthquake in Desert Bluffs

Kevin felt his limbs go stiff just as the first tremors started. He pitched forward involuntarily, barely catching himself before his head hit his desk, bouncing off and landing hard on his shoulder. His stomach clenched as if it were the cause of the quake. He felt his neck jerk his head back to a sick angle and a vision overwhelmed him.

_Roaring, aching sandstorms whiffled across the sand wastes, tearing the surface of the desert away to reveal bleeding, raw, writhing dermis. Lighting whipped from the hands of the clouds and thunder howled in response, pulling the chariot storm onward. Charred bodies fell around him, drawing in the poor light and draining his eyes of sight. The hiss of the dust and the screeching of the winds beat and beat and beat against his head, driving him to his skinned knees--his skin was the desert, being torn away by the wind in strips and sheets of sand--his nose was clogged with dirt and his tongue was dry, though bitter slime dripped from his teeth and oozed, viscous and cold, from his throat--_

\--far, far on the endless horizon, rising like the sun, golden light pulsed through the storm, burning his eyes. It came for him, though he knew not what he'd stolen from it, this beast of light and flame, this force that pulled with its teeth the flow of TIME--

When his mind finally returned to his body, it found it shaking and grabbing the carpet with bloodless hands. His bookshelf had fallen over onto heaps of its contents; somehow, he'd missed the massive crash of it hitting the ground. Papers had fallen off his desk and his red-stained computer monitor had toppled. The rich, welcoming smell of blood emanated from his worktable and the stray dog he'd carved up there before the quake was still in place, if overturned. Sitting up, he gagged and slapped a hand over his mouth, hoping his wastebasket was still reachable.

He found it toppled beside his desk. Reaching for it, he vomited into the bag, wiping his mouth in sudden exhaustion. His forearms ached and he stared down at them, wondering where the red and turning-blue bruises among his tattoos had come from. Maybe some of the falling books had hit him during the earthquake. Feeling nauseated, he stumbled to his feet and grabbed onto the desk for support.

Oh, this would take hours to fix. With a little grimace he pushed himself off the desk--and immediately wobbled dangerously. He collapsed into his chair, panting. Okay. A break first, _then_ cleanup. Tomorrow there'd be an explanation from StrexCorp on his desk for the radio, no doubt, but until then, he just had to buckle down and get this straightened out. He still had to finish that dog, organize his notes for tomorrow, send an email to Damien, and run to the store, and now this on top of everything. If only his stomach would stop hurting....


	2. Scientists Investigate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long story short, StrexCorp is not entirely peopled with assholes, and Carlos is onto something big.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... Let me know if you like it.

B: Somewhere in a Bunker

Kalyan frowned deeply as he looked over the readings. Half-frantic, he threw them onto the desk in front of his computer and grabbed the continuous seismograph printout as it spilled onto the floor. He grabbed a pen and started marking the readings in time to old spikes on the seismograph. “Has anyone else noticed this?” he demanded, not looking up from his work. 

Edith came up behind him and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, jeez, what happened?” 

“Damned if I know!” Kalyan threw the growing pile of the seismograph printout aside to make room for more. “Why didn’t this trigger some sort of alarm? This happened two hours ago!”

“I’ll tell Wolfe.” 

“Make sure he knows that this happened two hours ago,” he said stiffly, watching her run to the door of the lab. He sighed in frustration and looked around. The lab was empty now except for him, or at least empty of all humans; there were still caged rats, mice, and a very angry-looking blob of greyish fur and teeth they’d found in a cuckoo clock a while back, as well as blank computers and vacant workstations. Kalyan sat down and turned his monitor closer, flicking passwords into security checkpoints. Camera 9 was down, and 4 had been blocked by fallen objects, but the rest were all okay. He found Kevin in his bedroom under the eye of camera 14. The radio host was delicately picking up the shards of a broken mirror, hands bloodstained and head down, looking exhausted but intact. His blue t-shirt was a little ruffled and he’d changed into sweatpants and shoes. Packing up the mirror into a paper bag, Kevin stood and rubbed an eye. His tattoos were shimmering in the camera as they always did, forming halos of radiation the cameras couldn’t process. He lifted his head tiredly to the ceiling, rubbing his neck, and Kalyan was treated to the security image of his face—a long, straight nose; a narrow chin and tall forehead; kindly lips; and, oh, those eyes—solid, featureless, perfect black. His motions were careful, especially when moving his right shoulder, which he seemed to be favoring. Now and then he put a hand to his stomach or throat almost absently. Kalyan grabbed a fresh sheet of paper with the StrexCorp logo on the top and started taking notes. 

The door burst open and Kalyan jumped—Wolfe stormed into the room, all curly hair and thick clothes, shoving his reading glasses forcibly onto his face. “Let me see,” he demanded, shoving Kalyan’s chair aside. Kalyan grabbed on to the arms as it spun away. He set his feet down to stop it and turned back to his boss, who was glowering at the screen through the lenses on his long nose as if hunting Kevin through the security feed. “He’s favoring his right arm,” Kalyan reported. 

“Mild injury to right shoulder, contusions along both forearms, contusion on right temple, nausea, severe lack of bloodlust,” he listed in a quick mutter, inches from the screen. “Get medical on the phone and show me the readings.”

Edith charged for the phone—smart move, Kalyan thought—and he stood and set his notes beside the readings. “Here. They’re in line with this section of the seismograph. I don’t know why we didn’t feel it here, but it was pretty bad in town.”

“‘Bad’ is objective, watch yourself.” Wolfe took the readings from him and stood, rising to his full, bulky height. Kalyan wasn’t big, but good lord, human beings should not be as large or as wild as Henry Wolfe. He’d wondered before if he was a werewolf or something—around here, that wouldn’t be too odd. “Hand me a pen.” 

Kalyan whipped one out of his pocket and held it out. Wolfe took it and, without looking at him, started scratching notes into the margins and between paragraphs and readouts. After a moment he handed the whole stack of papers to Kalyan and commanded, “Make two copies of this, take one to monitoring and one to medical—go to monitoring first—tell Geels to send me all reports between the hours of four and eight pm today, and when you go to medical don’t deliver this to anyone but Michaela Principia.” He stopped. “Well? Get going.”

Kalyan nodded and gratefully fast-walked away from Wolfe, feeling almost-yellow eyes digging into his back as he disappeared into the hall. 

Wolfe stared into the computer monitor intensely before logging off and slowly following his employee out. 

\-----------------------------------------

A: In a Lab by Big Rico’s

“Cecil?”

Cecil hummed into the phone. “Carlos? Is something wrong?” He sounded like himself, if a little hoarse. Not the tired rasping he’d voiced before.

“No. I’m just checking in. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, much better. It’s a mess in here, though. Is your lab all right?”

Carlos looked around. “Yeah. Lots of broken machines, but nothing that can’t be replaced. No-one was in when it happened.” He looked down at the seismograph printout in his hand, flicking his eyes over the spikes. “Cecil, that wasn’t a normal earthquake. I can’t pinpoint an epicenter, and it should’ve been much stronger than what we felt, at least an 8.3 on the Richter scale. And we felt it. I’m going to call Marta and Diego after this to see if they felt anything.” 

“Well, let me know what you find so I can report it tomorrow.”

“You’re still going in to work?”

“Of course!”

Carlos sighed. “Cecil, have you ever taken a sick day?”

After a moment of thought, Cecil answered conversationally, “Once, a few years ago. I grew a third eye for a week and spoke entirely in Ukrainian. I seem to recall feathers, but I’m not sure if I grew them, or if I saw them, or… well. Intern Yvette covered for me. Station Management didn’t feel she’d done a good enough job and fired her shortly after.” He sighed almost wistfully. “Her family let me spread the ashes."

Shaking his head, Carlos set down the readings. “Take care of yourself.”

“ _You_ could take care of me,” Cecil said teasingly.

“Not tonight. I’ve got to figure out what’s going on. I’ll be here for a while.”

“What about date night?”

“I’m sorry, Cecil. This is just too important right now.” 

“What if I have another vision?”

Carlos frowned. “Vision?”

“During the earthquake. Oh, I forgot to tell you! I had a vision during the earthquake.”

“Describe it to me.” Carlos shoved the readings aside, grabbed the nearest notebook, and hastily assembled a makeshift pen out of a hollow coffee stirrer, a wad of cotton, and some green food coloring. He'd gotten pretty good at it with practice. 

To his surprise, Cecil said hesitantly, “Carlos, is this really necessary?”

Cecil denying him a story? Oh, no. Something was very, very wrong. Carlos looked out at the wall as if he’d see Cecil there. He could picture his expression: eyebrows pinched together in a pleading—no, concerned—frown, lips drawn back, flawless eyes looking anywhere but his own. A light blush beneath his freckles, head at a slight angle. Shy, a little guilty, very uncomfortable. It took one hell of a voice to paint that image without speaking it. “Are you all right, Cecil?”

“I’m fine! I just don’t see why this is… necessary.” 

Oh, no. Alarms were going off all over Carlos’s mind. “Okay,” he began. “Cecil, I’m going to leave in just a moment and go back to your place, okay? I’ll help you clean up first, so that’s done. We’ll talk in private. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Cecil’s normal voice returned for a moment. “Carlos, that’s not—”

“No, Cecil, I’m coming to you. Don’t worry.” He stood up from the desk and yanked the cotton out of his “pen.” “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Cecil’s voice was warm and grateful. “Oh, Carlos.”

“Goodbye.” Carlos hung up and pocketed his phone, hands stained green, and in his rush to get back forgot to lock the door. 


	3. One Week Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another earthquake strikes, and Cecil and Kevin are simultaneously worsening. Carlos is on his way and Kevin is on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of imagine Desert Bluffs as a place where violence = kindness and an attack is a sign of friendship. I mean (spoilers for 19 A/B), Kevin thought that Cecil was hugging him in the vortex when Cecil was trying to choke him out. It takes one hell of a skewed perspective to mix that up. So the meanness between Kevin and Vanessa in part B is supposed to represent a good relationship; I hope I represented that well. But yeah. Long story short, there's some minor violence.

A: If You See Something…

The street cracked open like an eggshell, pouring out water and sludge from broken pipes; louder-than-usual shrieks echoed across the town. The Night Vale Community Radio station thrashed on the unstable earth, pitching papers and interns alike. In the men’s bathroom, Khoshekh yowled and his kittens hissed at the floor. Station Management’s door failed under the stress from the tremors and the bashing of its occupant, unleashing a tidal wave of spiny tentacles, numerous snapping jowls, luminous bubbling eyes, and mismatched neckties. A janitor got caught in the flow and disappeared with an expression of mild surprise. 

It surged past a locked door, and Intern Reese covered his ears against the horrible sounds around him. He’d worked here for three weeks and now this? He’d been chosen for this job—one does not deny the purple envelope when it shows up on your desk—and despite horror stories from friends and family he’d come bravely into work for the past fifteen days. He’d filed papers and answered the phone and bought the announcer coffee like a good intern. He’d beaten back a wide-eyed ghoul with a broom and been chased by barking, spray-paint bearing plastic bags up the street. He’d survived. Now he was huddling under a desk, about to be killed by something so ordinary as an earthquake. It just felt anticlimactic.

A rough tremble shook the floor and he heard the door to the recording booth open behind him. He turned to see the legs of the announcer—Cecil, he’d only met him in passing—stride slowly and smoothly into the room, the rest of him hidden by the table over Reese’s head. His shoes were black, his khakis pressed. Below the thighs, he looked professional. Reese never considered calling out to him; there was something… _right_ about how he moved, something purposeful and dominating, and Reese looked away in mindless fear as the radio host left and shut the door behind him.

Then—booming, crashing, roaring—Reese hit the deck and whimpered as the building threatened to collapse around him—the dark “On Air” sign blew out, spraying glass across the floor—a many-mouthed scream, and silence. The earthquake was over. Warily, Reese pulled himself out from under the table and looked around. Despite the mess around him, the radio station (or at least this section of it) was intact. He walked to the door and carefully peered outside. 

Fetid slime from the managers', um, “body” slid down the walls, mixed with blood. Reese’s shoes left prints in the gelatinous residue as he stepped into the hall. Another intern was helping the secretary out from under his desk, and a desk clerk was ushering others out of the building. Several windows had blown out, and the power seemed to be dead. From down the hall, he could hear the cats mewling for attention by the sink. He’d better go see them—they couldn’t get out, but they’d probably be fine off the ground. 

As he approached the men’s bathroom, he heard a low, sonorous moan. “Who’s there?” he demanded, scanning the dark hall. He should always have a flashlight—it could save his life one of these days. 

Whoever moaned coughed and stirred. Reese spotted something pale behind a plant and realized that he was looking at a pair of pressed khakis. Charging forward, he shoved the plant aside and knelt down next to Cecil. The man’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and his face drained of blood, and he was holding a fist to the spot between his ribs and his gut. “Mr. Baldwin?” he asked. Cecil didn’t respond. “Hey, Cecil?” He reached out and shook the host’s shoulder. Cecil winced and groaned loudly. “Hey! HEY! Harriet, over here!”

Another intern popped her head around the corner. “Reese? What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got Mr. Baldwin! I think he’s hurt or something!”

Harriet knew the fireman’s drag and Reese ran for help as she pulled Cecil into the main room. By the time he got back, Cecil was sitting up against the front desk, looking exhausted and sick. Harriet was talking to someone on Cecil’s cell phone. “He’s not hurt,” she was saying, “but he doesn’t look too good. He says he wants to see you. Can you come down?” She looked up at Reese with large eyes as the other person spoke. “Uh-huh. Reese is going to get him a water bottle.” With a flick of her head, she sent him off. He went around the desk and searched through the drawers hopefully. “But you can come get him? That’s great. We’ll see you in a few. Be careful, I think the roads are bad.” She hung up and gave Cecil his cell phone back; he took it tiredly and after three clumsy attempts pocketed it. “He’s coming to get you. He says hang on.” 

Cecil nodded slowly. Reese found a water bottle and leaned over the desk to hand it to Harriet, who uncapped it and gave it to Cecil. “I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice weak and hoarse.

“Carlos said you should have water.”

“Okay.” Cecil took the bottle and with a shaky hand raised it to his lips. A little dribbled down his chin as he drank. “Did he say where he was?”

“No. But he said he’d be here soon.”

Reese leaned over curiously. “Who’s Carlos?” he asked, feeling out-of-the-loop. 

Harriet shrugged. Cecil sighed thickly and crackled, “He’s perfect.”

\-------------------------------

B: …Say Nothing and Drink to Forget

Vanessa opened the door a crack, the blood on the knob slick beneath her fingers. She spotted Kevin’s hair and stepped outside. “Kevin?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

He was worryingly dry, with barely a fleck of blood or bile on his clothes. Only the bottoms of his shoes were properly wet, and even then it was just a thin coat of red on the waffle tread. “Oh, I’m fine,” he replied immediately, not sounding it. “I just needed some fresh air.”

“But everyone’s still working. We’re losing productivity time without you.”

“I—I know, I just needed a break.”

Vanessa sat beside him. She’d known Kevin for only a little while—she’d come to the station about three months ago and had only recently gotten to know the announcer, as friendly as he was—but she’d come to think of him as a friend, a friend she’d never seen so down. He was usually the life of the station; he often came in, dragging the body of a homeless man or a traveling salesman behind him, and without prompt or occasion proceeded to decorate the walls and tables with strings of intestines. He knew everyone’s name and his hugs always left big, loving bruises. He was fun and kind and easily the most efficient person in the station. “Are you sure?”

He nodded tiredly. His black eyes were shadowed and his skin was glossy with sweat. He looked sick. Kindly, Vanessa took his arm and dug her nails in, drawing blood. Kevin winced and pulled his arm away. Heart plunging in worry, Vanessa muttered seriously, “Kevin, I think you should see someone.”

“I should,” he sighed. 

“What happened during the earthquake? Bobby told me that you had a seizure.”

“I…” He shook his head. “It wasn’t a seizure. I don’t know what happened.” He stood. “Vanessa, you’re right. I should see someone. Thank you.” 

He turned to go back into the building but Vanessa grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. “No, please, Kevin,” she begged. “Don’t just run out on me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Kevin looked down and put his hands gently on her wrists. What was wrong with him? He didn’t even shove her away! “It’s nothing; I’ll see someone about it.”

“Kevin, please.”

He paused and looked her in the eye. Then, suddenly, his hands smashed into her sternum, sending her flying off the stoop and onto the sidewalk. She thudded hard to the ground and skinned her wrists. Shaking out her hair, she looked up to find Kevin smiling down at her. “There you are,” she said fondly, grinning back. She clambered to her feet. “Come back inside with me. We’ll double-time the offices, organize a work plan for tomorrow, and then we’ll all go out for a slice at the StrexCorp Pizza Vendor. Does that sound good?”

“Yes,” Kevin said, though as he spoke Vanessa knew he was lying. “I’ll be fine in the morning, I’m sure.”

He held the door open for her. “Thanks. Will you be okay? You still look sick.”

“I’ll be fine.” He flashed his characteristic grin, the one that promised death and fun times. “Is anyone hurt?”

“I don’t think so, but we filed a report for—”

The door slammed shut behind her. Startled, Vanessa spun around and threw it open, but in the second in took for her to react Kevin had vanished into the parking lot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Khoshekh and his kittens are fine.


End file.
